observation
by Nylex
Summary: <html><head></head>Every square inch of his skin is packed with nicotine, meth, failure and tattoos, and being around Mike makes him forget this. For just a moment or two.</html>


**observation**

* * *

><p>Her name is Holly Friedman, she's twenty three, and she's worked at this particular roadside Denny's for two years now. In waitress terms (at least in greasy spoons by truck stops) this makes her a veteran. There's nothing particularly shocking or unlikely about her. Nothing remarkable; she has two parents who love her very much but hated each other, and after their rocky divorce Holly dropped out of school. She fell in love, got pregnant, and within two months her boyfriend headed for greener, less rotund pastures, leaving her alone and four months pregnant. A yellow Denny's uniform and sixty dollars in cash was all that remained of her broken relationship.<p>

But that was then. (Four months ago.) And this is now. And Holly doesn't like to think about Zach or her empty bed, or the tiny apartment she lives in with peeling wallpaper and a tub with one leg poking through the floor. She likes her job—the work is hard, the pay is short, and the hours are long, but Holly is a hard worker and likes the steady allotment in tips she gets from truckers. They think she's young and cute and like to playfully whistle at her (in a married, older man sort of way) when she's crossing the parking lot. "I saw this cute little thang out in the parkin' lot today," one of the older regulars, Bob, would say. "Short skirt, long hair, does she come around here often?"

And Holly would smile, dimples flashing, and respond mischievously (in a young, affectionate sort of way), "I don't know, I haven't seen her before. Maybe it was just a dream, you should take more naps on the road, Bob."

"Sure looked like a dream," Bob would laugh at his unfunny joke, slap his knee, and Holly would refill his coffee cup.

Holly leaned against the cash register, rubbing one hand unconsciously around her full belly. Her feet were swollen up tight as drums; hopefully she could get her shoes off tonight. All the girls on the night shift (seventeen, pierced lips or noses, big innocent smiles) loved to poke fun at her ugly square Crocs, but Holly liked her foam shoes. They were comfortable, and she could slip them off without too much trouble.

"They're _baa-aack_," Margarite said in a sing-song voice on her way to the kitchen. She was older than Holly and had three times as many kids, but hadn't been working as long. Her plump, smiling face was twisted into a knowing smirk.

"Who?" Holly asked, looking around. "Oh—_them_."

"Yep, the kid and the older guy. See if you can get the kid's name, he's sort of cute," Margarite said sweetly. Holly raised her eyebrows and suppressed a smile.

"I'll tell Jorge you said that," she told her friend laughingly.

"What? Just because I have a goalie doesn't mean he can't score," the Hispanic woman laughed and took a wad of tips out of her apron pocket, starting to count.

Holly pressed her smiling lips together and shook her head. "You're awful," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

They always sat at the same table, in the corner, facing the door. Which meant they were always in her zone. Every few days they would stop by, sometimes three times a week, sometimes twice a month. But they stuck together—a young, skinny kid who dressed like all young men around these parts dress, with baggy pants and dark, loose hoodies, and would stick close by an older gentleman. The boy looked her age, maybe a little older, but he had the look of a junkie, or maybe he was just underfed. (But he looked like a junkie, maybe reformed? Holly liked to think she was fairly perceptive about these things.)

The skinny boy was sort of cute, Holly had to admit. But in a different sort of way—she looked at him and saw somebody's son, looking like a small boy missing his mother. It lurked beneath baggy eyes and jittery hands. He had a mother somewhere who probably loved him very much. She knew the mark of a little boy who had a loving mother, hopefully her baby would have that same look.

And the older man? Holly had spent probably a cumulative time of thirty minutes at their table, ferrying plates back and forth, and she had gleaned something of an intimidating presence from him. Quiet. Steady. Stern, beneath that heavy brow and calm expression. The older man was always polite, said thank you after everything, always tipped well, and paid in cash.

Honestly, there wasn't anything remarkable about them whatsoever. Except that they were different than the usual clientele they got at this particular Denny's.

And Holly, who liked to think she just read too many mystery novels, had a brain that picked up on little things. A detail-oriented brain, one could call it.

She saw the way the boy looked at the older man.

_That_ was why they were interesting. Every so often people would come by, eat a meal, and leave with the air hanging full of stories, because any fiendish gossip worth their salt knew a character when they saw one. But nobody picked up on the man and his young partner, because nobody got close enough to notice the desperate, pleading look in the young man's eyes, or notice any of the details. The way the kid would put away his cigarettes after just one look from his older companion. The way the kid's knee would jitter until the man would look up and mutter something, and everything would relax.

Impulsively, Holly went over to their table.

"Anything I can get you gentlemen? Some more coffee, dessert?"

"Just the check, thank you." the older man rumbled. She nodded, and lingered another second.

"Did you enjoy your meal?"

The older man put down his paper slowly and looked over the top of his glasses. He had searching, sweeping blue eyes (_piercing_ blue eyes, in the literal sense, not the trashy novel sense) and looked her up and down from head to toe. She flushed under the split-second scrutiny.

"We did," the man said after a moment.

"Good, please come again!" Holly squeaked, and waddled away as fast as she could. Eight months pregnant, she moved like a water buffalo. She felt a little frightened for some reason—was he that intimidating? Holly busied herself in the kitchen, heart hammering for some reason she couldn't identify.

Peeking out the circular kitchen door, she watched the two of them. It was a slow night, and she was alone in the kitchen besides Alex, the short-order cook, and the two busboys. So she felt fine with snooping for a little bit.

The older man got up, presumably to use the restroom, and said something to the younger kid. The boy looked up, said something back. He got clapped on the shoulder, but the touch lingered just a second, resting on the upper square of his back, and then the older man left. It was almost a consoling gesture. There was something fatherly about it, almost.

She watched the boy's face crumple.

His jitters came back in full force and he began playing with the top of his cigarette pack, flipping it open and closed endlessly. He chewed his thumbnail, and then stuffed the pack back in his pocket, looking towards where the older man had disappeared down the hall. There was something fiercely hungry in his expression, as though he wanted to simultaneously tear down the hall and punch the man in the face, and also get hugged tightly, and maybe have someone kiss the top of his head.

Holly slowly approached the table, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. "Hi," she said softly. The boy jumped a mile and looked at her, quivering, eyes wild. There was a struggle for a moment, and he tried to get himself under control, smile a little, calm himself. But every expression was written on his face. He was so utterly transparent.

"Hey," he breathed.

She didn't know why she had come over here.

She didn't know what she wanted to say.

"It's on the house," she said after a moment.

He blinked. "Oh. Um, thanks."

Holly turned to go, but hesitated. "You should…talk to him," she said vaguely, gesturing to where the older man had disappeared.

He flushed, either with embarrassment or anger, she couldn't tell, and chuckled somewhat bitterly. "He's, uh, not much of a talker. Not that type of guy, y'know?"

"Well," Holly started, "well, maybe just do something. Because…I mean. You should."

The kid looked up at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Okay," he said slowly.

She smiled, felt the exhaustion seep into her bones. "I don't know. I'm a little tired, and I feel a little kooky. I was watching you guys from the kitchen, and I mean…I don't want to presume anything…but I just feel like you two should talk. About something. I don't know, it's just a feeling. I get them sometimes. About people, I mean."

Holly patted his shoulder and left, feeling better, and oddly lighter.

* * *

><p>Jesse Pinkman yanks the car door shut and waits for Mike to start up the car. He doesn't.<p>

"What'd that waitress say to you?" Mike asks brusquely.

The chemist shrugs, trying to be flippant, but rests his hot, pounding head against the cool glass. _I feel like you two should talk about something_. Pound, pound, pound, all he can see are the lines around her eyes and the way her kindness seems to radiate outwards, like a warm blanket, like she _knows_ something he doesn't. The part of his brain, the meth part, the kind that's crystal blue and fine as hell, settles into paranoia like a dog settling down to gnaw at a bone. Did she know something? Was she hired by Gus? By Mr. White? By someone, to set them up? Had someone really been able to just _look_ at him and tell? Was he really that sloppy? Of course he was, everyone _told_ him he was, but _still_. He'd been sort of forgetting that he was a fuck-up lately.

"That it was on the house," Jesse rasps finally.

"Anything else?"

Mike is so careful, and Jesse knows this, because Mike is careful with him. Jesse imagines he'd be careful stroking his hair, too, or maybe patting his back. Something, godfuckingdamnit, because every square inch of his skin is packed with nicotine, meth, failure and tattoos, and being around Mike makes him forget this. For just a moment or two. And it's so sick, it's so twisted, that he daydreams about getting praise from Mike, getting touched or hugged, like he was some sort of _fourteen year old girl_ with a crush.

"Nope." Jesse exhaled.

Maybe it's just sex, maybe he just wants Mike to fuck him, wouldn't that be so much simpler? And maybe Mike would let him, maybe he would be _careful_ with him, but for some reason this doesn't appeal to Jesse at all, he's not attracted to Mike. He just wants something from him, something he can't put his finger on, and Jesse is terrified that if he steps over the line then that will be it. But at the same time he keeps panicking, thinking that Mike will forget about him, because his head is so hot and he really just needs a hit, and the car is so quiet because Mike hasn't started the car yet.

Mike starts to say something.

_Don't, please_, fucking _don't_.

"Kid…"

"Can we just _drive_? I've gotta cook in the morning." Jesse snaps, because here is the moment—the only moment he will ever have in his life to tell him everything, to say that he wants to change sides, he wants this fucked up war over sparkling blue crystal to end, he just wants out. And he wants out with Mike, because Mike makes him feel strong.

But Mike starts the car.

They pull away from the Denny's.

Jesse's headache passes and he knows the moment does, too.

* * *

><p><em>Fucking mike, man. Fucking mike and jesse. -<strong>nylex<strong>_


End file.
